Page 24 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He knows it now, real fuckin’ clear.

He’s dead inside, buried under a pile of bodies and moans and minutes that meant nothin’. He let ‘em take it all, and now there’s nothin’ left.

He slides into his Honda without saying goodbye, starts the car, and pulls off, leavin’ her standin’ there. He even stopped thinkin’ about her the second she hit the rearview.

Then he keeps drivin’. The Jersey boy who don’t give a fuck anymore, headin’ straight for the city.

Ludlow’s sweatin’ tonight.

Andrew steps in and the door swings shut behind him.

Bar smells the same as what he’s trapped in four nights a week at the Clover—tequila breath, Lysol, and gallons of cologne and perfume. Chatter crashes in from all around, ice hits glass, and early Stones is playin’, slurred and dirty.

Girls at the corner table clock him on arrival.

One sits up straighter. Another recognizes him as she passes by, snaps her gum and grabs her friend’s wrist.

“That’s Andrew Harding,” she mouths.

He keeps his head down, his hands buried deep in his pockets so no one grabs ‘em. Peter’s sittin’ pretty at the bar, southpaw grip on a whiskey glass, button-down open, baseball cap backwards, a brunette curled up under his arm, another pressed against the bar, orderin’ shots.

“Jesus Christ, Harding,” Peter calls out over the music, bourbon and Boston hangin’ off the words. “I thought you died. Get over here, Jersey.”

Andrew’s already regrettin’ this shit. Shoulda turned around, gone home, passed the fuck out, got caught up on sleep.

But he also don’t give a fuck tonight.

Nah. Tonight, he’s mournin’ an entire life he’ll never get to have.

No love.

No Sunday mornings.

No growin’ old with someone.

At least, nothin’ real.

He’s twenty-seven, standin’ at the crossroads with only three options:

Lie alone.

Lie to one girl forever.

Or lie to hundreds, one at a time.

That’s all that’s waitin’ for him.

He scrapes a hand down his face as he walks up and slaps Peter’s hand. “Feels like I’m dead, bro. Straight up. Haven’t felt my feet in three weeks,” he says, pullin’ him in for that half-ass bro hug. “Lookin’ to drown in my sorrows and watch you make a few mistakes tonight. Figured you’d be surrounded by them by now.”

Peter throws his head back with a laugh.

“Not mistakes. Memories, Jersey. I’m creatin’ memories.”

Andrew met Petey through Roger—minor league, plays third, cocky swing, don’t miss a fuckin’ thing at base. Andrew hops in on Sunday league when he can. One of those pickup games that end in ribs, beer, and somebody losin’ a bet.

Peter Cavanaugh ain’t the guy you call when you need a heart-to-heart.

He’s the one you call when the last thing you want is the fake ‘you good, bro?’ bullshit. He doesn’t pretend to care to feel better about himself or shove alcohol in your face. He’s that rare breed. The one who’ll sit on the curb with you ‘til sunrise, or stand outside the bar while you ghost a girl you shouldn’t’ve touched. Zero judgment, zero lectures and motivational speeches, while you do whatever the hell you need to do so you ain’t doin’ it alone.